Nayto: It had been a week since the last straw, the moment known only as "Day Three," one that would go down into Cizok's history as legendary. The Shogunate government, lead by the Shogun Gardini Almaster IV, a man who had subordinated the Emporer himself into a state of namelessness, had damaged the integrity and honor of their nation with his warm acceptance of foreign influences upon their economy. Jobs were lost, income was damaged, and as soon as foreign investors began to buy property to rent to native Cizokians, it had been enough for they who saw the ills of the "glorious" Shogunate--not to mention the warmongering state he was in, fighting wars in multiple countries at once, not for territory, but for something as small as an overreaction to an insult.

A man by the name of Maguro, a fishing guru of the current capital city of Cizok, Akinai, stood in defiance to their Shogun, and spoke out to any that would hear; he didn't command revolution, but for the public to be informed. He hadn't expected to be the central celebrity image of revolutionary ideals, to be concealed by them not for his best interests, but theirs. It started with one gathering to hear Maguro speak, a day known to many as the "Sensou," whereupon Gardini sent a force to subdue and contain the crowd--and a riot ensued. People were hurt, but the very few that died only died of their injuries later on, not that day. Then, when a foreign merchant ripped off a Cizokian horribly, amongst so many others, a small riot lead to him drawing a pistol and shooting a young man to death--followed soon after by his own death at the hands of an even larger riot.

And then, finally, Day Three came upon them: the two prior riots lead to an even larger one, and at the first scene of anarchy--foreign stores robbed and burned to the ground--Gardini reacted with his soldiers once again, spillt into the city of Akinai to apprehend as many as they could, masked in preparation--as Gardini had simultaneously ordered his airships to flood carbon dioxide into the city, a reaction which had been lethal to many. Although this had been restricted to only half of the city, he had devoted as many of his fleet as he could to the cause, for during the Sensou, one ship had been devoted to monitoring the situation, and it was rumored that only a single man in the crowd had brought it down--and even if the rumors were untrue, that ship had been brought down. Likewise, as Akinai was slowly reduced to flames (upon Gardini's realization that he had made a mistake and frantic attempt to counter-act his own flooding of poison--effectively fueling the fires), single individuals began to reduce the airship fleet's numbers, but not all of them.

Inevitably, many that lived managed to escape Akinai, but Gardini's soldiers, with the aid of his elite force--the Kensai, managed to apprehend many. Some had been released, some would never be seen again. All that remained now was the ideal: revolution. There was no direction left for them. Fight--for themselves or their families--or die. Their organization was scarce, makeshift villages scattered throughout a vast series of forests which constituted central Cizok, safe houses, and camps that had to be moved regularly, or else risk discovery by Shogunate forces--much like the camp of Maguro himself, although he and the others managed to escape, mainly unharmed. Attempts for organization were being made, however--in these camps, villages, and safe houses, there were men who dared assert themselves as some sort of representative of their groups, to establish communication with others, and create some sort of order amongst them.

It was their only chance for survival, now . . .

Carlos: Jin Kazamika was a warrior first, and a human being second. Before he had learned the contours of a woman, he had versed himself with the delicate curves of a sword; before he had learned to smile, he had learned to swing. His unbridled ferocity in battle mixed well with his natural inclination towards swordsmanship, and he made a name for himself quickly among the ranks of the Shogunate's elite forces; a name painted in blood and gilded with gunsteel. If Jin Kazamika was a warrior first, and a human being second, then he was a monster third and last. And only a monster could have seen events unfold the way they did on that day, Day Three, and remained stoic.

Warriors killed warriors, that was the business that Jin Kazamika had signed up for, not to take hold of his sword and cut down man after man after man like stalks of wheat. There was too much blood, even for Jin Kazamika, and there were far too many screams. Too many women, too many children; too many bodies. He left that day, before the last drop of blood spiraled to taint the ground, and was never seen by the Kensai ever again. And they never would, not as Jin. They next time they saw him…he vowed nothing less than absolute destruction.

The days following Day Three were a crisp fog; clear and vivid, gritty even, while he passed through them but a dim and hazy memory now that he tried to think back. No matter. The facts were plain. He was a revolutionary now, he was in the heart of a camp, and together they would show the government why it should properly harbor a healthy fear of its people. He sat by himself, on a tree trunk that seemed out of place near the center of the camp, and was gently sliding a sharpening stone across the edge of his gleaming katana. Before him was a sheet. Atop the sheet was a bowl filled halfway with a putrid green bile and beside it a handful of shurikens. His eyes, though as black as all the other eyes belonging to all the other men, were abysmal. They held a promise there, an unreadable phrase, but one that sung of revolution. He wanted to find Maguro, he wanted to fight alongside that man. Maybe this was the camp he was looking for.~

Nayto: It was only natural for others to find a lack of faith in Jin Kazamika, a Kensai who decided to desert--one of very, very few who had, up to this point, Kensai, conscripts, and general army alike. Amongst the few thousand rumored to be scattered throughout the expansive forest of central Cizok, perhaps less than a dozen of Gardini's men were amongst them. They could have been spies, ordered to detect, follow, and pretend to be amongst the ranks of these escaped citizens who so violently, for themselves or their families, revolted during the events of Day Three. The distance that they all put between themselves and Jin and but to be expected.

This was, unfortunately, not the camp that contained Maguro Hito, the charismatic speaker that sought more than anyone else to establish contact between these stray camps and makeshift villages. It was, however, a fairly large camp, one of the more organized ones, lead by two men: Chujutsu Raikou and Hisoka Antoshima. He was a fortunate man, though, namely because of the former "commander." Chujutsu Raikou was, at first, not a trusted man amongst this large group of refugees, if only because of his lineage. He was only half-Cizokian. His father was from a far distant, foreign city-state--Sythinia, a man he never once saw in his life.

Because of this man, Jin Kazamika had not been denied from this camp. He knew and understood the difficulty of an austere lack of faith, and if it weren't for the camp's faith in Hisoka and Chujutsu's status as one of the reclusive, silent, travel-lustful Hisoka's very few friends in the world, he'd be nothing but another face in this camp. Prior to that day, the former Kensai and Chujutsu Raikou had never met each other before. Before that moment, the only sound in the former Kensai's vicinity had been the sharpening of his own blade, but soon enough, there were footsteps in his general direction.

A man of awkward fashion stopped eight feet before him--a man of foreign tastes, but truly native at heart. His short, thin form was hugged not by clothing traditional amongst their culture, but a pair of dark slacks somewhat tight upon his legs, but not his hips, and a New Xexorian casual jacket--a suit jacket--tattered and torn, atop an equally tattered and torn white, button up undershirt, and then, amongst everything else, his face was vaguely feminine in structure, and his hair, shoulder length as it was and currently parted in the middle, was such that it could barely be considered natural: white with a blue tint? blue with a white tint? silver attacked by both ivory and azure? The kind faced, gentle hearted, soft spoken man was known only as Chujutsu Raikou.

"Kazamika Jin, correct?" he asked, his voice far from gruff, light on the ears, pleasant, even.

Carlos: He had only been superficially aware of an encroaching presence. Jin's mind was turned in on itself, his mind's eye reeling through the years, pressing the memories through a fine grain sieve and scrutinizing whatever dark stones remained. The revolutionaries around him were but specters, shadows that added substance to the milieu and nothing more. He had been lost in the reverie of his childhood the moment that one shadow fell before him and spoke. The words crashed through the fragile membrane of his mind and brought the vision of the real world flooding before him almost all at once. His body tensed, his hand tightened its grip on the handle of his sword; his muscles were conditioned to kill, and it took a tremendous effort to keep his body from committing to the swing.

No.

He had self control.

Though a tidal wave of instinct screamed for blood, he curbed himself. All that Raikou would see is a world-weary man; a man who stiffened in his presence, who turned his chin up slightly and brought one hand across his forehead to shield his eyes from the biting light of the sun.

"Yes, correct. And that is a voice that I'll recognize for all my years to follow. Raikou, Chujutsu."

Jin rose, sheathing his sword with all of the grace and fluidity that his craft demanded, then took hold of one end of the blanket and draped it softly across the contents it held. Jin stood up, took hold of all the emotions and the torrential downpour of memories pressing against his skull and dashed them away. He bent at the waist and offered a bow that a man of Raikou's stature and presence demanded, then fixed his eyes on Raikou's own when his posture erected.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company Raikou?"~

Nayto: Chujutsu Raikou returned the bow--but with a difference. He seemed to present Jin with the respect that one showed to a daimyo as a lowly peasant, a low bow, during which he did not make any attempt for eye contact. That was yet another oddity about the man. It didn't matter who it was, friend, foe, or stranger, Chujutsu showed every human being the same level as respect. He addressed them sincerely and respectfully, refusing to use vulgarities even in the presence of those who'd find it appropriate or amusing, and used honorifics that "hired" workers often did--the -dono honorific, for example. He didn't have to; nothing required this of him, and as a professional in his art (in a literal sense, art) and a member of society, it often resulted in others seeing him as a lesser man than he actually was. No--Chujutsu was a man of much value, as an artist and a human being, especially in this camp. He didn't need to show such deep respect for others, but he wanted to--and he did. He rose.

"Kazamika-dono, I wish not to squandle your time," he stated as an introduction to his point--his purpose--for being here, as respectful as any human being ever could muster, "There is a task at hand--a situation in need of specialists, not trainees--though, they seem more than ready to handle the world, by the looks of it!"

His exclamation of enthusiasm truthfully contained no sarcasm. The "trainees," the other male refugees that were ready, willing, and capable of training to fight, weren't actually ready for a real battle, and Hisoka Antoshima wasn't ready to train them for it--but he was trying. Chujutsu was not sarcastic--he was merely optimistic.

"I should perhaps inquire, first--are you rested? And fed, perhaps--that would be imperative, indeed!"

Carlos: Raikou was a die-hard iconoclast, and in this sense, they were brothers. Raikou broke the patterns in his demeanor, in the respect that he showed across the board whether it be to his superiors, his equal, or his social inferiors. Raikou was an island of a man, adrift and all alone, but powerful because of it; independent, and able to live his life as he defined it, not as others did. Jin Kazamika was similar, but on a much smaller level. He was an archipelago, an island that had no solidarity but was well on its way. First he defied the rule of the Shogunate, and now he worked against his once-master.

This was harrowing, and though his outer face did not show it, his inner face twisted and squirmed with disgust, with the pain of forcing oneself to understand. It wasn't what he had been--The Shogunate was…he was where the buck stopped, so to speak. When Almaster spoke, it was not opinion; it was not flotsam. It was law, sanctified by the highest courts of man, and when the law was writ, then men were bade to follow. But Kazamika had broken the law. When he stood there, on the Third Day, and saw those blades turn black with blood, his soul squirmed in defiance. When the laws of man clashed against the laws of a man, then…well.

"They aren't ready." Jin cast his onyx gaze around them, at the awkward hands wielding awkward blades, stumbling around on awkward feet. "They're getting there, but they aren't ready yet. Maybe a few more months, if they train every day…they need better swords too. But swords. Good swords and a few months. We don't really have the chance to--to get much of either, do we?"

Jin, suddenly realizing the edge of his own words, frowned as if something sour touched his tongue.

"I'm sorry, I speak out of place. I don't mean to be a pessimist. I just…I don't want to imagine that these men are throwing their lives away. But yes Raikou, I am rested and well-fed, both of which I have you to thank."~

Nayto: Chujutsu raised his hand, lightly waving off the suggestion of offense. None was taken whatsoever. Chujutsu himself could be offended, yes, but not by this--so rarely in conversation did he find offense, even with some of the most remarkable attempts. He was, after all, against the norm--it was to be expected that some would attempt to get under his skin.

"It is fine, do not worry. You did not speak out of place," Chujutsu reassured his compatriot.

Even if others could not fully (or even partially) trust the former Kensai, Chujutsu could. He could trust until he saw reason not to--and he had not seen such a reason from Jin.

"You are right, we are in need of supplies and time--and I think we can do that."

And that was where Jin came in . . .

"I'd like to say that it is a safe job . . . but that would not be fair to anyone. Hisoka-dono and I have been scouting the area. We believe that there is another camp several miles up north, but we are cut off. Shogun-dono's forces have not located us, but it is safe to believe that they are trying--and with the others, too. We still have not made contact with any other camp, but . . . I think we have the opportunity, now. The traces of civilian passage are near, but they are being tracked. From what I witnessed, it is a camp of a dozen or so soldiers, several Kensai, and a commander of some sort. It is a not a force we should send all we have against--not yet, but specialists--like ourselves--are capable, though I fear the process still difficult. It would only strengthen our numbers and resources if we are able to track the other survivor camp ourselves, and not allow the Shogun-dono's men to reach them. It is . . . a monumental task, I must admit--but will you assist us, Kazamika-dono?"

Carlos: He took Raikou's oratory in a small gulp at a time, parsing the words into their individual constituents and spoon-feeding them into his mind. Though Jin's eyes remained sharp and clear, his mind turned in on itself as he brought to the surface the vivid image of a strong contingency of the Shogunate's soldiers. Then the image of the opposing forces, the feeble-armed rebels; then of the bloodbath sure to follow, which did not point to a favorable outcome. Not for Jin.

"Yes." If Jin's eyes were clear before, then they were piercing now. "I threw away the reins to my life the moment that I turned my back to my fellow Kensai a week ago. I threw away the promise of safety when I turned this blade," The very same one that Jin then slid home into a sash that held the scabbard close to his waist. "Against men I once called brothers, and a man I once called Lord."

As Jin fell into the rhythm of his speech, as the volume of his voice came more and more from his diaphragm and less and less from his throat, he began to change. He held himself taller, his shoulders squared, and his chin tilted up a little bit, with an inkling of pride.

"If it is for the cause, then I will not fear death. If it is for the people, then I will kill a million demons. Whether by sword or with my bare hands Raikou," Those stone black eyes then truly bore into Chujutsu's own. Jin's speech slowed, and the words flicked sharply from the tip of his tongue. "My sword, my arm, and my life are yours to command."

Nayt: Raikou watched every movement Jin made--every muscle contraction and release, the way he seemed to straighten up with his back and shoulders and chin whilst he felt boldly for the task at hand. Both voice and body suggested determination, not for the Shogun, but against him. Were it up to Chujutsu Raikou, Jin Kazamika would have been a well received and trusted ally right at that moment--but he couldn't speak for everyone else, and both he and Hisoka knew that. Truth be told, Hisoka had suggested someone else for this task, but Chujutsu wanted to prove to them something--and help the majority all the same.

"Thank you," Chujutsu stated sincerely as he bowed low at the waist, "Your loyalty and determination will not go to waste--this I promise you, Kazamika-dono."

He rose and stood straight once more, his eyes wandering from Kazamika's form and onto the dense supply of trees beyond. As they were, there was only so much they could do. Chujutsu and Hisoka together could generate a truly massive amount of firepower, enough to permanently dent the Shogun's forces and social infrastructure--enough that it couldn't be repaired, but what good would that do? They would be killed shortly thereafter, and there were only so many people like them amongst the revolution.

They couldn't band together as a small group of single person armies and take on the world, for while their backs were turned, the most important ones--the people they were fighting for--would be slaughtered. Men and women with extraordinary power . . . it must have been frustrating for the others to know how useless it was--for now.

"We have a small supply of provisions--bandages, rations, and medications. It is best that we leave as soon as possible, so . . . Kazamika-dono, please meet me at the north side of camp in forty five minutes. In the meantime, please gather the provisions you feel you will need."

Carlos: He said nothing. Merely nodded his head in confirmation and bowed at the waist, much in the same way that Raikou had but not with nearly the same amount of depth, before straightening and going back to the blanket laid out across the ground. Jin, first and foremost, finished what he had been doing before Raikou had approached him. The shuriken, whose tips he had dipped into the oddly hued concoction in the bowl, the poison of the purple ringed octopus, and then delicately placing them in his pouch. Whoever found himself nicked by these projectiles wouldn't live to the next morning to tell about it, and that's just the way Jin preferred it.

With the last of the purple poison, the edge of his katana was lightly tempered and then placed back inside of his sheathe. The bowl's contents were thrown away in a small hole that Jin dug for himself, bowl and all, and then he washed his hands with water from his gourd in an area of camp that he knew not many would travel to accidentally. The grass there would be dead by morning as well. There went half an hour of his day, and with nothing better to do but look forward to the mission at hand, Jin thought it prudent to arrive at the north end of the camp a little bit early. Maybe they would take his eagerness as a good sign of things to come.

On the way to the north end of the camp, Jin ignored the eyes. The eyes that blazed the trail before and after him, but that grew cold when they traced his silhouette. They bothered him, on some small level. Jin knew that they just couldn't understand. They could not understand what it was that would drive a man from one lord to another, as it were. They did not know the kind of gore that Jin saw on the Third Day; the only people that did, and were still around to talk about it, were the soldiers and the Kensai themselves. Most, if not all, of the civilians involved in that massacre now knew the comfort of a cold bed made of dirt. Those that still drew breath…well, it took a very strong man to talk about those days. And there weren't very many strong men left after that.

So Jin ignored them. He pitied them even. Because they just didn't know the kind of demons that awaited them in the months to come. He pitied their ignorance. If only he could be that way, then he might be able to smile about the revolution. But if he didn't know, then it wouldn't be courage.

Forty five minutes later, Jin stood as still as stone and looked to the horizon, merely waiting.

Nayt: With a bag over his shoulder, Chujutsu Raikou approached the north end of camp. Their camp was small, but it still fit a good number of refugees and revolutionaries. Makeshift tents lined the somewhat chopped clearing like a block organized village, except much less permanent. There was a large space in the middle that progressed like a line leading north to south, with residents of this temporary camp on either side of it, training, preparing, bandaging, or simply doing what they could to survive--for even if they were left alone by the Shogunate and permanently isolated, they'd not last longer than a couple of weeks on what rations they had.

It was a worrysome state, but if all went well, it could be fixed. Chujutsu just hoped that the other camp, if still alive, had more supplies than they--enough to make up for both camps together and then some. Raikou was perfectly on time, not late or early, and he had used every second for preparation. He brought water in two flasks, bandages, and a small amount of rations: four uncooked potatoes; although tough to eat, horrid to taste, and produced few necessary proteins, they were the most filling. Fighting and sneaking on an empty stomach was ill adviseable in this situation; they couldn't risk making mistakes with all they had on the line.

"Kazamika-dono," he bowed, "Let us go."

What few provisions he had, Jin had managed to procure before ever coming to the camp. Only two people trusted Jin throughout the rebel faction and, consequently, those were the only two people Jin could trust in turn. There was no sense in honoring a man that held no honor towards you, or more to the point, trusting a man that thought you an artifice of foul deeds. It would end only in ruin, and that was something that Jin had every intention of avoiding for as long as he could, or until his purpose was met.

Jin had not been made to wait long. In fact, had Jin himself arrived on the time agred, he wouldn't have been made to wait at all. Raikou was almost eerily punctual, but that was a train of thought best saved for another, less strenuous, time. Though he'd not know it yet, Jin had much of the same rations on him that Raikou did, save for the addition of a few strands of jerked and salted meat. Jerked and salted to keep it from going bad as long as possible.

When Raikou bowed, Jin's body was electrified into motion. He bowed reflexively, out of the ideals hammered into his nerves as they were hammered into the nerves of every young child, and again into every young swordsman, and three times over into every young kensai.

"Yes yes. Let us go Raikou. Our mission is an important one, and every second that we spend with no forward progress made is a second wasted. Not to think of what tricks Fate my turn on us or by what degrees Fate will turn the roads of fortune for every second squandered. Be ready always to fight Raikou. Fortune favors the bold second only to the well-prepared.

Lead us."

"Let us be off, then," replied Raikou with a smile.

He was interesting, this Jin Kazamika. Was it perhaps his training as a kensai that made him a natural born leader? He spoke to Raikou as if the man needed morale, and it begged the question if Kazamika's decision to state this was entirely purposeful or not. Was he honestly trying to boost Raikou's morale, regardless of if it needed boosting or not, or was it simply second nature for him, something he couldn't control? Needless to say, it was something typical of a leader--a good leader.

Had things gone a different way in Cizok, this rebellion of theirs would have never happened--and Jin Kazamika would have ascended into the elite kensai. He'd have given up his name and identity to take on the persona of a beast; a creature who lives for one purpose and one purpose alone: for his country. To be an elite kensai, to become the blades of the nation, was a goal sought after by those who adhered to the old ways, and so many foreigners thought it queer. They couldn't wrap their minds around the idea that the ideal of the country could be more important than the ideal of the individual.

In another time, Kazamika would have experienced the truest joy of any honorable Cizokian warrior. It was a sobering thought. Raikou's smile became a somber one, rueful for the man by his side--the very man he was leading into the dense forestation with no trodden path to follow, the very man whose life was on the line every second that they were outside of their zone of safety.

"Kazamika-dono," Chujutsu spoke first the man's name to grasp his attention, "Do you feel regret? For the desertion of the Kensai--for the path our country has followed?"

Jin nodded solemnly, turned his face away from the camp, and began to slow but steady progression that eventually turned the camp behind them into a speck against the horizon. While they strode on in silence, Jin lost himself in the deep fog of his thoughts and memories. His body moved automatically, slowing or picking up his stride whenever the landscape altered, picking up his feet over fallen branches or rocks until they got to a path that was a bit more beaten down.

Images of the obstacles overcome came to him. He remembered the blisters on his hand, spawned from swinging a dull blade against a tree trunk for hours at a time, day after day. He remembered the bokken bruises, the broken bones, and the cuts. Jin remembered the failures, the times when he was brought to the ground, but remembered most the victories. He remembered bleeding and remembered the blood he brought.

People misunderstood the kensai at times. They thought that a high level of skill meant a low level of empathy. Maybe if they saw Jin’s practice of burying the dead he kills, the prayers he whispers to ensure their path to heaven. Maybe then they’ll understand that Jin does not kill because he loves it, but because he has no choice.

“Regret, yes. This is not the country that I was destined to serve, Raikou. Not anymore at least. Years I’ve spent making my arm strong, to defend the principles and values of the country that my father served. And now…

And pity. Pity for the kensai that cannot see that they serve a demon. When they die, only the dark awaits them. They kill the very people they were sworn to protect. The people that they were born from.

What of you Raikou? What do you feel about the road this country had started to trample? What did you do before the revolution came?”

"I was a painter."

Chujutsu Raikou was a humble man. Like an honored samurai did not brag of the efficiency of his blade, Raikou did not speak once of the high price his paintings often sold for, or sometimes international praise that he received for a select few pieces. He did not even mention his specialty. If Kazamika was a man of artistic tastes, then perhaps he'd know for himself the works of the half-Cizokian resident of Akinai, but it wasn't in any way prerequisite knowledge. A kensai was a kensai and an artist was an artist--and that was all.

"I think . . . and it saddens me to know that I feel this way . . ." Raikou stared ahead blankly, his eyes half-closed, his lips barely moving with the next statements, "The greatest disappointment is knowing that no matter how many paintings I sold in warning for what was to come and how many stories and essays Sakamoto Masa-dono published about rising tension-- none of it mattered. Nothing we did could have lessened the blow, or even prevented it altogether."

Raikou felt no inherent disdain for any individual or organization. At worst he could feel disappointment, and even then he felt guilty for it. Perhaps he hadn't painted enough on the subject? Perhaps he could have been a better artist?--an artist whose work spoke to people on a general level.

Disappointment in the majority, those that he knew were comrades in this struggle, for ignoring his and Masa's voices could be transposed upon himself to minimize the wave of guilt he'd inevitably feel for enmity towards any one individual. He'd carry the world on his shoulders if he could.

"But I suppose that only applies to myself anymore," Raikou sighed. "Because the only artists and writers that matter in the world are the ones that have already died."

Perhaps if I had died before everything went to hell, my voice may have been heard--and maybe I would have made a difference. It was a thought best left unsaid.

Jin listened with all of the cultivate patience that one could expect from a man who has devoted his life to swordsmanship; he was silent, almost solemn to a degree, but like the sharpened blade with which he had carved his legacy, his attention was honed and focused. There was no detail that escaped his mind’s grasp, and no concept that did not go without being envisioned.

A short while ago, when Raikou had made way for Jin into the ranks of the camp, Jin thought he recognized the man’s face, or at least his name. It took more concentration than he could afford to give at the time to connect Raikou’s name with the artist that had painted, in Jin’s personally opinion, some of the most beautiful scenes and people that had ever graced the world in the past two decades. He never would have thought that such a man would now be leveling all of his might and his resources against the empire.

“You can’t blame yourself for being unable to influence the people, Raikou. No matter how powerful a man’s message, it is lost on the deaf. No matter how influential his art, for example, it is lost on the blind. And no matter how important the cause, it is lost on those that do not look to tomorrow, but are instead lost in today. It’s a sad fact, but every second that we live in breathe is a second that we risk our lives for people that will never know our names, and may never know our purpose.”

Jin walked on in a calculated silence. He felt no more need to talk, for the time being, both because he thought the matter had been beaten to death and because the sound of his voice had a tendency to surprise the creature of thought and break Jin’s own focus. But this silence did not last too long, because the creature of thought was ten times smaller than that of curiosity. Both grave and idle.

“Do you fear death?”

Offtopic: I super apologize. I've been overly busy as of late.

"I suppose that . . ." Raikou looked up, eyes half shut, but gazing endlessly into the sky beyond the restrictive canopy, "I wouldn't mind being nameless. I would rather the people have . . ."

Foresight.

It was something he didn't voice. Chujutsu simply left that topic go--it stagnated and became something different, and he had preferred it that way. This overall wasn't a train of thought that he had really wanted to explore. The fear was somewhat complex in its simplicity: Chujutsu was afraid that he'd look upon his fellows with disdain for their lack of foresight--for not acting earlier and in a much less violent way, so things wouldn't have become this bad. Maguro himself wouldn't have been lying if he said there were better courses of actions that could have been taken earlier--but no one did.

Death--was he afraid of it? It was a concept that came up very often for Chujutsu, not quite in such a blunt manner, but the man he lived with--the potter, Kanemeate--had a double life. No one he maimed dared to declare him as their attacker, and anyone who sent people after him met with death. Kanemeate stalked, maimed, and often killed bad people: rapists, murderers, con artists, thieves; criminals of all shapes and sizes whose crimes derailed the lives of many--whose personal habit of breathing air was a burden upon innocents. No one knew his name; not law enforcement, not the military, for no one spoke it. The only ones that had the chance to existed within the Underground--and they didn't deal with the government. Still don't. Probably never will.

There were more dangerous people in the Underground than either the Shogunate or rebellion forces could boast--people that could kill a man in a blink of an eye, so fast that they'd have been dead fifteen seconds before they even realized it. Just by living with Kanemeate, Chujutsu was taking his life in his own hands.

Kanemeate . . . just where was he, anyways? Chujutsu hadn't seen him since the morning of the Day 3 revolt . . .

"No," Chujutsu shook his head, smiling, "I do not. I cannot. Not with the company I keep. But I would never discard my companions for a safer life. They are the only ones who give meaning to my life."

"I do." To speak, Kazamika first slowed in his gait and then stopped completely. He planted both feet firmly on the ground, the very image of a walking tree now taking root, and looked ahead. The forestry began to thin, and they would be almost completely free of the trees after perhaps another half an hour of walking. Jin then looked to his back, at the vast expanse of verdure that now covered the distance between their spot now and the camp they came from.

He did not know how long they walked for. Maybe an hour, maybe more than that. Good conversation with a good man had a tendency to make time, the equalizer of all things, seem temporarily insubstantial. Jin had to stop to say what lay on his mind now. If he walked, he might have stumbled through his words, or the act of having to consciously pick his way through low lying branches and high rising roots may have broken his train of thought. He did not want to stumble, and did not want to seem inauthentic.

"I fear death. It began when I was thirteen. The first day that I held a sword, felt the weight in my hand, and recognized the potential given to me to take away life. Just a child, and I could take away life. I've feared it every day since. I suppose that's what makes me good at what I do. My fear of death drives me to survive, even if I am the only reason why I have to fear death in the first place."

Jin looked to Raikou for the first time since his speech.

"Fear is a very powerful tool, Raikou, and I think I might be the only man I've ever met that uses fear in the way that I do.

"I've wasted enough of our time. I'm sorry. Now that we walk into the yawning mouth of almost certain doom, I needed to tell someone. That's one less secret that I take to the grave with me."

Jin turned away brusquely and forged ahead. He thought he caught the scent of wood burning.

"You may also be the only man I've ever met who does just that," replied Chujutsu with a nod of his head, "But that is in no way a bad thing."

Jin Kazamika's justification was an interesting one, indeed--and if he was correct, efficient. Justification for efficiency was often as important as the efficiency itself, as one could not always run on skill alone. Likewise, one couldn't always function on fear alone. As Masa Sakamoto had written, there were various high ranked members of Gardini's government who acted out of fear of Gardini himself. Sometimes, it wasn't the best justification, and now there were many citizens that could not be controlled by the simple idea that Gardini might order their deaths. They'd have surrendered themselves otherwise.

These thoughts were harshly interrupted.

Chujutsu hadn't heard a thing, nor would Kazamika. Whatever happened, the disturbance was too far to be heard, but it was coming this way. Chujutsu knelt down, hands on the ground, eyes half shut. He saw the world half as an abstract of colors and half as its given reality--the way reality seemed not to budge, but in the distance the colors waned . . . it had been enough to tip him off that there was a problem--a problem he wasn't going to pursue, but wait to near him.

That was the issue most had with tracking; they always wanted to pursue their target, but what if a target was coming right for them? There was no need to hunt it; the only need was to prepare for it. It was a mistake that cost many the hunt, and would cost Chujutsu and Jin their lives if they were to make it.

"We should quiet ourselves," he whispered, "It seems we're no longer alone."

Jin’s senses were not…remarkable, per say. He did not have the keen, almost supernatural hearing that some of his contemporaries boasted, nor could he claim any particularly keen sense of sight as well, as it seemed Raikou could. But Jin was, for lack of a better word or phrasing, simply aware. He did not need to see past the hillside; he need only see Raikou’s face. The consternation that drew his brow together, the almost harrowed way in which he dropped to the ground. Body language and facial tics told him almost as much; told him that somewhere ahead of them lay something that he did not want to meet.

Jin’s brow furrowed as well, his entire body stiffened marginally and his hands crept to where he kept his sword. Left around the shaft, to steady the scabbard, and right around the hilt, to draw the blade that has taken the life of a hundred men. He turned his body tightly, coiled like a snake ready to spring, and let his eyes wander ahead of him. As before, his eyes were merely mortal, and he could see nothing beyond the foliage; the leaves and the barks, they hid whatever danger lay in waiting.

As the two men stood there, tremulous and cautious, the differences between them increasingly became more and more evident. Raikou advised patience and prudence, perhaps the best path to tread when in the face of the unknown, and Jin knew this well. But he knew, as well, the rules of combat. And knew that, as they stood there, they were little more than sitting ducks. Victory often went to those that had the initiative, and if they did not move, their lives were forfeit to whatever force was lobbied against them.

So Jin was the first to move. Quietly he stalked, sandaled feet refusing to crunch the most fragile leaf or twig underfoot, and his mind consciously sharpened itself to the music of the world; the birds still chirped, and if they stopped, then death would come. Jin’s eyes flitted all over, taking snapshots of details and information as it was given to him, looking for three things; something added, something taken, or something moved.

Jin strode stealthily forward and forward until he reached the densest line of trees available, pressed his back against the trunk, and pushed aside a branch entertaining a shroud of leaves. Looking back, he posed a wordless question to Raikou.

‘What is it? And are you ready to die?’

When hunting a bear . . .

Raikou did not follow behind Jin. Raikou, as the leader of this small two man expedition, felt it was imperative to wait and be patient. He knew something that Jin did not: the total number of what was ahead of them.

He still had to concentrate, though, not quite content with the angle he had seen things. Still bent over, he walked on the tips of his toes, side-stepping one foot after the other for several yards, ignoring cover, finding it unnecessary as is. The approaching group wasn't going to see him, not yet; but caution still had to be taken. If they made any unnecessary noise, they'd tip these people off. Soldiers, perhaps. That's what it seemed like, but Jin wasn't going to be able to tell. Kazamika could have stared off in the same direction as Chujutsu without hearing or seeing a thing.

Chujutsu, as any sort of leader, wasn't the type to display his authority openly; he didn't command the respect of anyone around him. It was too unlike him--to rude, too open. Truth be told, he had never truly been in a situation like this, so his own reaction had been quite new to him. Nevertheless, it was somewhat similar to a time he lead a group project: to paint numerous designs, sculpt the final design, and paint the sculpture in an open-ended way--so it could be both a painting and a sculpture in one. He had been the leader of that project, and he--and the other six artists--had a deadline to meet. Chujutsu had actually been quite efficient in keeping things going smoothly.

. . . you do not approach the bear.

After a minute, Chujutsu had figured out a good layout, and had a better idea of what they were dealing with. He motioned for Kazamika to come his way.

The silent question hadn't been answered, and Jin had only been regarded as a variable. A variable on Chujutsu's side, under Chujutsu's command, but a variable nonetheless. A variable splotch of color upon a field of a singular shade, positioned at one point on the opposite side as approaching variables. Too many variables. Too many different splotches of color.

Once Jin was close enough, Chujutsu would begin to whisper: "This seems to be the search party I'd mentioned before. It is larger than I anticipated--twenty-one men strong."

You lay traps.

"What is your expertise?" Chujutsu asked in a whisper. It was necessary information for him. A painter couldn't sculpt as well as a sculptor and a sculptor couldn't paint as well as a painter. Chujutsu needed to know Kazamika's style--his specialties and his expertise. And it was best if he knew quickly.

And you wait.

Jin took note of Raikou's motion, to break him away from the line of trees and come back to him, but he did not move right away. There lay in his bones a powerful momentum, one that made his skin cry and quiver with this bloodlust, and a heavy inertia kept him in place for a few seconds longer than was necessary. Jin reminded himself that he was a man, and not a beast, and with this broke the chains that would otherwise drive him towards a certain death. Jin swaggered like a panther, noiselessly carried the bulk of his predatory self to Raikou, and then stopped when they could whisper amongst themselves.

"…"

Jin did not blanch at the estimates. But he did falter. His eyes dropped a quarter of an inch to the ground before returning to Raikou's face, and his hands spontaneously tightened to fists. His lips set themselves into a thin line, jaw set itself into stone, and his shoulders straightened. The numbers of the search party were not prodigious, to say the least, but they vastly outnumbered Raikou and Jin. Two solitary men against a small battalion; ten each, with one remainder. More for Jin, as Raikou was barely a warrior at all.

"Camouflage." At Raikou's earnest inquiry, Jin was snapped back to the present; his mind left the gory details of what was to come for later, and focused on the now. "Sabotage. Distraction. But I need a lot more time than we have right now for any of those. Other than that, it's my blade.

"I'm a Kensai, first and last."

Maybe he could handle fifteen. If Jin found a grove, or perhaps a cave, he could lead them to it and they would be forced to follow after him. If the cave's entrance was small, he could handle a small number of them at a time and then progressively wade through their forces. But how would Raikou survive. He would have to stay hidden. Jin would have preferred this even if Raikou had with him the necessary mindset to use the tools of war. Raikou was a leader; a voice that gave strength to the people. Jin, though tremendous in his skill, was still only a swordarm. If Jin died, it meant 1/100 the impact of what would come if Raikou died.

"Do you have a plan?"

"I can minimize their reaction time," replied Raikou.

He shut his eyes halfway, again seeing the world as colors--colors without lines to skew them, nothing to break them apart, no single barrier to block them from blending and molding together, flowing like a surreal piece of artwork, the kind of art Chujutsu himself specialized in--

"And slow their movements."

They were distant, but close enough to merit concern. Excessive loudness would tip the enemy off; it was to be avoided at all costs. Whispering was best, moving slowly was advisable, and mindfulness of the area was required. If they broke a branch or left footprints where the enemy might see, then they were going to be in trouble.

"You must remember, Kazamika-dono," Chujutsu began, staring only into the distance, in the direction from which the enemy was coming, "Even if the camp is in tact, this is the same search party we believe to have been hunting them all along. If we do make contact with the other camp, we cannot bring them to our camp or share resources so long as this threat remains."

And this was where Chujutsu was at his worst. He could hunt. He was effective at that. But he had a hard time killing--like this, at least. While acknowledging enemies as human beings, he was fine, but what had to be done here was quite the opposite. If they were fighting human beings, they'd be going headlong into battle--but a hunter does not hunt human beings. They hunt game: animals.

"We must be the hunters. They must be game," Chujutsu continued, lowering his eyes, "And you are better equipped for that than I. If they're slowed, scattered, and disoriented--can you eliminate them?"